Spanish Dust
by he.said.gosh
Summary: From drug induced slumber to mind numbing reality... [PotW]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: If I owned these characters there would be no need of fanfiction.

**Spanish Dust**

His heart wouldn't break over her betrayal. It couldn't; it had already broken long ago.

He glances around the small bedroom they'd shared the last few days of their travels trying to stave off his burgeoning despair. He tries not to think of what she's done. He tries not to see the ghostly visage of his wife's memory walking about the room, checking her hair in the mirror, picking up the negligee he'd bought her off the chair in the corner. But his attempts are for naught as his eyes land on the tactile proof of what he'd sell his soul to banish from reality.

A folded sheet of paper torn from the journal she carried with her wherever she went.

"No," he whispers brokenly, the shards of what used to be his heart crumbled into dust as he openly wept and buried his face in his pillow. The bed shook with the force of his violent sobbing, but his muffled cries went unheard. As always.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: If I owned these characters there would be no need of fanfiction.

Okay, so I'm anal... I rewrote this chapter, or rather, parts of it. shrugs

**Broken Hope**

After my tears had run dry and I had lain staring mutely out the window for God knows how long, I took a deep breath and pushed myself up to a sitting position, my muscles protesting the painful process after lying still for so long.

As I made it upright and swung my legs off the bed, the room spun, forcing me to momentarily delay my intentions of rising. I sat still with my head in my hands until the vertigo passed wondering at how many pills my errant wife had slipped me.

I groped blindly for the jeans I had left at the foot of the bed earlier and struggled to get both my legs into them. The effort it took to accomplish such a menial task was extraordinarily frightening. With a careful turn of my heavy head, I eyed the dresser across the room. Never more thankful of my wife's habit of laying out my daily clothing, I was forced nonetheless to forgo the socks sitting so guiltless atop my folded shirt. Opting instead to pad it barefoot awhile, I wiped the sweat from my brow with a shaky hand and rose from the bed to head for the kitchen where no good morning kiss awaited me…

The note my wife so thoughtfully left stared at me hatefully. With jerky movements, I slapped it off the nightstand and crumpled it in my fist and regained my marathon walk to the kitchen on the other side of the villa. I would feel better… rather, my _body_, would feel better after I fixed myself something to eat.

My brief progress halted with the drifting of my thoughts.

Fix myself something to eat..._ fix myself..._

_My own meal._

_No good morning kiss._

_No socks thrown my way._

My breath hitching in my throat I grasped at the fact that I needed food. Coffee. I needed coffee to think clearly, to wash away the lingering trace of those damned sedatives.

It was terribly disconcerting to have to make my own coffee after Cathy's absolute tending for so many years. My flaccid hands struggled with the coffee beans… the smallest tasks seem to take such effort this morning… afternoon… evening… who knew. I looked to the sun filtering through the curtains to attempt discernment of the time of day but quickly shrugged with indifference. It didn't matter when it was only me.

Holding a mug of barely recognizable coffee in my hands I stared disinterestedly at the mess I had made with the beans and grinder, and opted not to eat until my body stopped rejecting my demands and started behaving again. I could only imagine the problems that would arise from such a task, and I felt disgusted with myself over my irregular lack of ability to prepare my own meal…

_My own meal._

_No good morning kiss._

_No socks thrown my way._

Floodgates creaking from quickly mounting waves of despair, I sank to the floor gripping my mug tightly in both hands and tried so very hard not to break again.

_She left._

She left me here. _Why?_ I tried to recall what she had threatened about going to her damned brother's graduation alone, but I had had too much wine… too many sedatives… to remember. Fragments of last night, if it was indeed last night, filtered through my head. If I had known it was our last time… I would have… I wouldn't have done that. I would have been gentler… I would have shown her how much I loved her. How much I needed her. How much I depend on her to keep me from drowning.

The burn of sloshing coffee on my hands paled in comparison with the war in my heart. I could feel my breathing becoming increasingly labored. Struggling to calm my heightened anxiety, I tried desperately to grasp at the splinters of my memories...

…_meet me in New York…_

She-she said that... she did! My chest constricted painfully with previously forfeited hope. Could it be that she only went to the graduation? She didn't... she's... not gone for… for good?

Holding my breath captive to keep my pounding heart company, I unfurled my fist revealing the crinkled paper I still held. Strengthening my resolve, I set down my mug and opened the letter.


End file.
